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352 pages, Hardcover
First published December 1, 2020
The slanting whiteness of the light, the thin freshness of the day, dazzled me. ... This unsullied light, this bright vision, they're beautiful, but they're false. They paint over the truth. They promise something they can't deliver. It's not until the day gets older, wearier, that it stops making the effort to lie.
Skinny and pale; jittery hands; eyes that looked everywhere but into yours. ... Abruptly, Sam met my eyes. As always on the rare occasions when he did that, his were unnervingly clear and sharp. "... but the point, like you say, the point is I really am out of my mind. The thing about temporary insanity is, it's temporary. They let you out when you get sane. Which I will never be, never, never, Smith, never!"
"I knew you wouldn't like my work. I just asked to make sure you still wouldn't lie to me. ... There's a serial killer in New York."I was intrigued by this twist. Rozan hadn't written from Smith's perspective since On the Line, #10 in this series and published in 2010. As I had included in my review for Paper Son, from a 2011 Publishers Weekly interview -
Without heat, I said, "... whatever the news said, the cops won't call it a serial killer at two, even if they're sure this two were the same guy. ... Why are we talking about this?"
"Because it's me."
Rozan finds it easier to write as Chin, whom she characterizes as faster moving and more upbeat, even though she describes Chin—who still thinks that she can change the world—as more like herself as she used to be. By contrast, it’s Smith, a darker figure given weightier issues to deal with, who often has only bad options to choose from, who is more like Rozan as she views herself to be now.
... he said, “Aren’t you going to tell me I’m not the serial killer type?”
“I don’t know that.”
“I guess in some weird way that’s a compliment.”
“It’s not. Why did you come here, Sam? Anyone else, I might think he was trying to impress me, but not you.”
“I’m not the type?” A sly smile.
“I hope you didn’t come for help leaving town, laying low, something like that. If you killed those women, you know I'm going to have to turn you in.”
“Good luck.”
“I have the guns,” I reminded him.
“You won't need them but they won't help. I already tried it.”
“Tried what?”
“Turning myself in. The detective told me to get lost. She said I wasn't the type.
By now, it was half past eight. Traffic choked the streets, and pedestrians wove complex patterns on the sidewalks. All traces of last night’s mist had burned away under the April sun. The slanting whiteness of the light, the thin freshness of the day, dazzled me.
Lydia's suggested any number of times that I consider changing my ways, getting up earlier, taking this in more often. She thinks it’s laziness and old habs that keep me from it. But she’s wrong. This unsullied light, this bright vision, they're beautiful, but they're false. They paint over the truth. They promise something they can't deliver. It’s not until the day gets older, wearier, that it stops making the effort to lie.
Yet again, the angel on my right shoulder told me to call Grimaldi, and the guy on the other side said I’d get more accomplished on my own. The right-side guy wanted to know if this was about getting things accomplished, or if it was personal. The left-side guy told him to guess.